Flaming Zeppelins (33 page)

“You're right,” Verne said. “We can't act like rats. We're men.”

NO. I WASN'T KIDDING. I MEANT IT. LET'S HIDE LIKE RATS. AND I'M A SEAL.

“What I am thinking,” Verne said, “is we make it to London, try and find Herbert. He is a smart man, and has access to a lot of scientific equipment. Perhaps together, and with the aid of all who are present, we can come to some conclusion as to how these invaders can be defeated.”

“Who's Herbert?” Beadle asked.

“Herbert Wells,” Verne said. “H. G. Wells. The writer and scientist. A good friend of mine.”

“I'll be damned,” Beadle said.

“What?” Verne asked.

“Well,” Beadle said. “He's a writer on our world as well. But not a scientist.

“And I don't know if you and Samuel know one another on our world. Or even if you know Mr. Wells. In fact, I think the timing is a little off. I'm not sure. I'm no expert on such things. But there is much overlap between your world and ours. We too have invaders. Saucer machines. They came through the rips. They're just one of many problems. I'm afraid it may be too late for our world; too many rips, too many invaders. But if we can't get back to our home, can't save it, perhaps we can save this world.”

Ned wrote: YOU TALK A LOT LIKE A DIME NOVEL.

Beadle grinned. “If you say so.”

“We are going to have to find fuel soon,” John Feather said. “And I suggest after we make a bit of mileage, we stop for the day, hide out, and travel by night. We're less likely to be discovered that way.”

“I agree,” Verne said.

The others chimed in in agreement.

Ned made a noise that sounded somewhere between a burp and bark. Later, lying there in the hammock, he tried to squeeze out a silent fart, but didn't make it. It burst out like a foghorn blast.

Ned wrote: EXCUSE ME.

They went on for many miles, fanning Ned's fart, trekking down a back road, and finally they came to a forested area. Light was seeping out of the day like water running through fingers. They walked Steam off the road, inside a grove of trees, geared him down. They got out and went looking for wood to stoke the furnace.

“We'll need a good supply,” Beadle said. “It's a long trek, it takes a lot to maintain steam power. Night is falling, so we must hurry. And for a time it is nice to be free of the gas in the machine.”

Ned wrote:

I'M SORRY. I SAID I WAS SORRY. WHAT MORE CAN I DO?

They split into wood search groups.

It was decided that Rikwalk, the strongest, was to stay and protect Steam, and to serve as a lookout.

Rikwalk pulled up a small tree, beat the dirt out of the roots, peeled off limbs with his bare hands, made a club of it. Then, with the club across his knees, he sat with his back to a great oak and waited, lost in his thoughts, spinning out happy scenarios of home, his job, his wife.

“Are you all right, Rikwalk?” Beadle asked.

“I am as good as I can be. At least I am among friends. But I think of home. My family. My job. My life. I miss it. I wonder if I will ever return to it. I'm not even on a version of my own world, but another world. You are at least on your own world.”

“Not exactly,” Beadle said. “In many ways, it's just as alien here for me and John Feather as it is for you. Buck up as best you can, my friend.”

Beadle left Rikwalk, and joined John Feather. Verne and Passepartout formed a team as well. The gathering commenced.

Twain decided that he would start a pile, gather good dead wood and then have Steam and Rikwalk come into the forest to get it. The way the trees grew, there was path enough for the big machine and the great ape, and it beat hauling the wood back in shifts.

Ned, dismounted from the cruiser, could only carry a few sticks in his mouth at a time, so it was a tedious process, him wriggling about. But Twain couldn't help but admire the dauntless seal's efforts. He knew the debris of the forest floor had to hurt Ned's belly, but the seal did not complain.

As they searched for dead wood, without realizing it, Twain and Ned ventured some distance from the others and from the pile Twain had made. Just as Twain was about to turn back with his armload of wood, he noted that the woods had thinned, and a farmhouse and barn could be seen, surrounded by a rock fence. Twain said, “I don't know about you, Ned, but I'm so hungry I could eat shit and call it gravy.”

Ned wrote: I DON'T WANT SHIT TO CALL GRAVY, BUT I COULD EAT SOME FISH. I COULD EAT MOST ANYTHING. EXCEPT SHIT.

“I believe you're taking me a bit too literally.”

I WOULD REALLY HAVE TO BE HUNGRY TO EAT SHIT. GODDAMN HUNGRY. I'M PRETTY HUNGRY NOW, BUT NOT GODDAMN HUNGRY. I DO NOT WANT SHIT.

“Got you. No shit.”

Twain dropped the wood. “If we can find someone here, someone who will help us, supply food for our journey, it could be just as valuable, maybe more valuable than the wood. Let's have a look around, Ned.”

Ned clapped his flippers together and barked.

They trekked back to where they had left the cruiser, and mounted up. From the woods to the farmhouse was a short trip by cruiser. Upon nearing it, they were shocked to discover that a portion of the house and the stone wall had been blown away.

“The machines, they've been here,” Twain said. “We should look for survivors.”

They left the cruiser outside, went inside the house and looked.

Nothing.

They used the cruiser to check the grounds and the barn. No one.

“Perhaps they got away.”

Ned wrote: OR GOT ALL MELTED. DON'T SEE ANY CHICKENS EITHER. HOGS. WHAT HAVE YOU.

“Ah,” Twain said. “A dead horse.”

Sure enough, behind a hedge row lay a horse, bloated, dead and stinky.

“I suppose we could have some horse meat, but I don't know, it looks a little —”

Ned was writing:

RANK AS THE ASS END OF A WALRUS. I'M NOT EATING THAT.

“Have no fear, Ned. We will only eat fresh horse.”

I COULD EAT A DOG.

“Hopefully it won't come to that.”

OR A CAT. IF IT IS COOKED RIGHT.

Back in the house they found a bag of flour and a bag of sugar. There were some dried meats and some canned goods, but little else. When Twain opened a cabinet, he leaped back. A body tumbled out.

It was a little girl, about six. She was starting to rot away. She was still in the position in which she had died, clutching her knees, her head bent.

“My God,” Twain said. “She must have crawled in there to hide, was too frightened to come out. She sat in there until she starved. My God, what she must have seen. How horrible it must have been. Can you imagine being so frightened you would rather starve?”

PERHAPS SHE DIED OF FRIGHT.

“I suppose that's possible. Poor thing. We must bury her, Ned. I'll go out to the barn, see if I can find a shovel.”

YOU'RE NOT LEAVING MY ASS HERE. I'M GOING WITH YOU.

They went out to the barn on the cruiser. They found a shovel. Twain eyed a wheelbarrow, and some dried vegetables hanging from the rafters.

“If we use the wheelbarrow, we can haul some of these vegetables, the flour and sugar, back to Steam.”

WHY NOT JUST PUT IT IN THE CRUISER?

“We will pack the cruiser as well, but I suggest we take all we can. There's room in Steam for a lot of stuff, and who knows when we'll need it.

“First, we'll take care of that poor child. My God, it makes me think of my own tragic family.”

I AM SO SORRY.

“Me too, Ned. Life just keeps throwing darts.”

BUT WE KEEP DODGING.

“You are one remarkable seal, my friend.”

THANKS. YOU ARE NOT SO BAD YOURSELF. ARE YOU GOING TO WRITE ANYMORE ABOUT HUCKLEBERRY FINN? OTHER THAN THE ONE WHERE THEY GO TO AFRICA BY BALLOON. I DON'T COUNT THAT ONE.

“Not your meat, I take it.”

I REALLY THOUGHT IT BIT THE HIND END OF A MOOSE. BUT I SURE LIKED
HUCKLEBERRY FINN
AND
TOM SAWYER.
I LIKED
THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER.
I LIKED
A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT.
HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT ABOUT WRITING A BOOK ABOUT A SEAL?

Ned paused to erase and write again.

I WOULD READ A BOOK ABOUT A SEAL. I THINK A LOT OF PEOPLE WOULD. I THINK IT WOULD SELL A LOT. SEALS ARE INTERESTING. I CAN BE FUNNY TOO. I KNOW SOME JOKES.

“It's something I will consider seriously, Ned. And, yes, seals are interesting. Later, I can hear your jokes. But for now, let us go back to the house and attend to this rather dreary duty.”

Back in the farmhouse, Ned pulled a blanket off of a bed with his teeth and dragged it into the kitchen area where the little girl lay. Twain, using the shovel because the body was too decayed to touch, rolled the little corpse onto the blanket. He wrapped the blanket around the body, and Ned jerked down some curtain cord with his strong teeth, and Twain tied up the ends of the blanket.

Gently, Ned holding the blanket in his teeth at one end, Twain lifting it at the other, they carried the corpse outside. Twain started to dig.

It was hard there, and there were plenty of small stones. It took considerable time to dig a grave deep enough to contain the body, and by the time Twain finished, he was covered in sweat, his great mane of hair plastered to his head like a tight bathing cap.

They lowered the unfortunate victim into the confines of the earth, then, with Twain using the shovel and Ned pushing dirt in with his flippers, they covered her up.

Ned used his flippers to push some of the rocks into a pile, to form a sort of makeshift marker at one end of the grave.

“Sleep well, darling. May angels attend thee. Even though I doubt there are any, and if there are, they're nasty little shits and God is a malign thug.”

THAT WAS A VERY NICE CEREMONY. YOU ARE NOT A RELIGIOUS MAN, ARE YOU?

“Not when God allows children to die. Mine or any other. God can kiss my ass.”

THAT'S NOT VERY NICE.

“I suppose not.”

IT IS A VERY DIRTY ASS RIGHT NOW.

Twain turned, brushed dirt from the seat of his pants. It had collected there during the two breaks he had taken while digging the grave, sitting with his back to the fence.

“Well, Ned. We should gather our goods and try and find our friends and Steam. It is growing dark.”

Ned made a noise, a barking sound.

“What, Ned?”

Ned clapped his flippers.

“What?”

Ned wrote:

BIG GODDAMN MARTIAN MACHINE.

Twain looked over his shoulder. And sure enough, stalking between the house and the woods was a machine, striding about like a three-legged spider. From that distance, they could not see the Martians behind the view glass clearly, but they could see bloblike shapes working the controls.

“In the house, quick, Ned.”

They leaped onto the cruiser and geared it toward the house. The house wall was torn open on one side from previous Martian attacks, so it was easy for them to glide inside.

They collapsed the machine and rolled it against the wall near a bedroom window at the back. Then, sitting to the side of the bed, their backs to the wall, they listened.

It was then that they heard the sound of guns in the distance. “My God, the British are fighting back,” Twain said.

This thundering went on for a time, shaking the cottage, causing the window to jar so fiercely, for a moment it seemed as if it would break free of its moorings.

Eventually, Twain rose, and leaving Ned to wait in the bedroom, slipped into the kitchen, where the wall was broken down.

Out in the dark, Twain could see the machine stalking about, a light glowing from its head and flashing over the landscape. The head wheeled on its gears and sockets, and the light shot out in Twain's direction.

Jumping back, Twain hoped he had not been spotted. He crouched low against what remained of the kitchen wall, half expecting a ray to strike and cause the whole thing to crumble down in a heap on top of him.

The light rotated away, and Twain eased his head around the broken wall for a peek. The machine was stomping off into the darkness. He was glad to see that it was not moving toward the woods where the others and Steam waited.

Back in the bedroom, Twain briefly and quietly reported to Ned what he had seen. There was the continuous sound of gunfire now, and it seemed to be moving closer, as if being pushed along by a current. Then, abruptly, the thundering of guns stopped.

Looking out the window, Twain saw a strange sight. A white mist appeared to be rising out of the distance. He could see it clearly in the moonlight, and soon it was like a gossamer gown thrown over the face of the moon.

“Smoke,” Twain said. “Explosions. And now silence. I fear the Martians have knocked out the gun batteries. The goddamn shit-eating dick-sucking bastards.”

WAS THAT ONE WORD?

“No.”

WHAT NOW?

“Our only recourse is to return to Steam. Taking our goods with us. I'm going to look about in the house a bit more. Living out here in the country, perhaps there is a bird gun.”

Twain looked about, but found nothing of the sort.

Outside, Twain took hold of the wheelbarrow handles and started to push. Ned mounted the cruiser, which was also packed with goods, and floated alongside of him.

To the north, they could see not only smoke now, but great fires, and there were distant cries as well.

“The machines are winning,” Twain said.

At the edge of the woods, Twain found pushing the wheelbarrow a hard go. The ground was too mushy. He managed it to the spot where they had left the pile of wood and stopped. “I'm leaving it here,” Twain said. “We can get Steam to come for the wood and the barrow. There's a path here. It might be tight, but he can make it. I'm all tuckered out.”

Twain climbed on the cruiser, and Ned geared it along the trail, toward where they had left their friends, and Steam.

But when they arrived on the far edge of the woods, near the road, neither Steam nor their friends were about.